


Birds of Prey

by MofBaskerville



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mycroft being a berk, Sillyfic, capslock abuse, traumatizing John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MofBaskerville/pseuds/MofBaskerville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft doesn't play fair - ever - much to Lestrade's surprise (and delight)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds of Prey

**Author's Note:**

> A short fic for a friend on tumblr going through a bad situation. She wanted Mystrade and semi-forced voyeurism. We have some sick folk in this fandom. (And I love it!)

“Well then, now that it's settled that we shall take part, what shall we wager?”

 

“How about the losers buy dinner for the winners for a month? Any takeaway they want.”

 

“Nah, how about pints for a month?”

 

“How about cake for a month?”

 

All eyes turned to Sherlock Holmes who was smirking evilly at his brother. Mycroft Holmes rolled his eyes.

 

“Was that _really_ necessary?”

 

“Just a suggestion. Don't tell me you weren't considering it.”

 

Mycroft smiled thinly. “Actually, I'd be amenable to the loser acknowledging that the winner _is a wonderful brother who loves him dearly_ –”

 

“Oh my _god,_ ” Sherlock groaned, putting an arm over his face. “John, where is that handgun of yours?”

 

“ – _and who deserves a great deal more regard and respect_ –”

 

Greg Lestrade looked from John Watson to Sherlock, his eyebrow nearly to his hairline. The paper advertising the 5th Annual Baker Street Scavenger Hunt fluttered to the floor, forgotten for the moment.

 

“Handgun?”

 

“Um ...” John gave Sherlock a dirty look. “Yeah, I ...”

 

“ – _and who certainly is not in the least overweight –_ ”

 

“Oh come off it, Lestrade. It's been nearly a year.” Sherlock didn't move his arm. “You knew that night just who your _crack shot_ was. You had no evidence, anyway, except my deductions, and who at NSY ever listens to _me?_ Also, it saved you a great deal of paperwork.”

 

“ – _and for whom cake is NOT a necessary component of life_.”

 

Sherlock sat up, sneering. “ _This_ declaration, gentlemen, comes from a man who once wanted to marry a berry trifle!”

 

Mycroft flushed red, and there was an uncomfortable silence.

 

John bit his lips to stem a smile and Greg's brow furrowed as he no doubt pictured Mycroft in a morning coat standing beside a bowl wearing a veil.

 

“I was three!” snapped the elder Holmes. “And Mummy made delicious trifle! Good lord, I _hate_ that you were ever told that story. Edith absolutely loathed me, the miserable bitch ...”

 

John cleared his throat. “Edith?”

 

“Our housekeeper,” said Sherlock. “She did despise Mycroft. She wasn't keen on gingers. Her sister, you know.”

 

Greg took a quaff of his tea. “Er, what about her sister?”

 

“She ran off with Edith's fiancé, of course.” Sherlock shrugged. “Never did get over it, and looking at Mycroft reminded her of the betrayal every time.”

 

“Oh. So the fiancé was a ginger?” asked John.

 

“No, no, the sister was,” said Mycroft. “Edith's hair was a rather faded blonde/brown monstrosity that she'd unsuccessfully tried to dye copper. It made it look like she'd piled sediment from the riverbed of the Thames onto her scalp. Each time the poor woman saw me, she was reminded of how her sister had inveigled her fiancé away with her _beautiful, lustrous, auburn locks._ We  _do_ tend to have that effect on people ...”

 

“ _Do_ you have red hair, brother?” Sherlock glanced at him. “One could barely tell now, you have so _little_ to go on.”

 

John shook his head wearily. “Sherlock ...”

 

Mycroft stiffened, but after another moment, he smiled.

 

“One could say the same of some of _your_ attributes, brother. Not your hair, of course, but your –”

 

“Oi, no need for that. It's a low blow ...” Greg's voice was a warning.

 

“ – I was going to say _sense of humor_ ,” said the elder Holmes, looking very affronted. “Unlike _some_ people, I don't descend to … bathroom discourse. Sherlock, I'm rather surprised that you spent so much of your last adventure with your mind so clearly in the gutter.”

 

Sherlock growled beneath his breath. “How many times must I explain myself about the Jarkst affair? _It was integral to the case_. I knew immediately that the hole could only have been made by a man with less than a 5-inch penis. I had to goad the suspect a bit to get him to show himself.”

 

“Which he did … again and again.” John shuddered at the memory. “Uh, can we get back to the subject? Maybe we should figure out a proper wager later and just decide on who'll pair with who for the scavenger hunt.”

 

“I'm with John. Back to business,” Lestrade said. “We all know it'd be too much of an advantage to have two Holmeses both on the same team, so you lot'll have to split up. No arguments.”

 

Both brothers looked scandalized.

 

“Perish the thought,” muttered Mycroft.

 

“Work with _him_? God, no.” Sherlock grimaced. “Why is this a question? I'll partner with John, of course. Mycroft will take Lestrade.”

 

John gave Sherlock a dark glare. “Sherlock, come on. Might be nice to _ask_ us who we'd like to go with. Greg might fancy working with you. Mycroft might want to partner with me ...”

 

“John, don't be dull. Of course you and I will work together. We've always done. And this way, Mycroft and Lestrade can finally stop nittering around each other and get off together as they want to.”

 

The room grew scarily silent once more. John appeared to be choking on air, Mycroft's mouth was slightly open, and Lestrade's face was nearly purple.

 

“ _Excuse_ me?”

 

“Overwrought outrage doesn't look as authentic on you as it does on Anderson, Detective Inspector." Sherlock yawned. "Your mouth needs to turn down at the corners more, and your teeth should be bared. You're only grinding them at the moment. The visual would be much more effective.”

 

"Look, Sherlock, I don't know what you're on about, but -"

 

"Of _course_ you don't." Sherlock yawned again. “Perhaps this scavenger hunt will give you the impetus to give it up and just shag already. Get it out of your systems, so that you'll finally stop verbally fellating each other in my presence!”

 

Greg took a breath, his eyes flashing, but Mycroft shrugged a shoulder.

 

“You needn't be crude, brother. It _is_ your home. If we're doing something to put you off, of course we'll stop at once.”

 

Lestrade turned to him. “Did you _hear_ what he just said? He –”

 

“I heard it quite clearly,” said Mycroft. “And, as I said, we'll stop at once. It's only polite.”

 

Greg began to speak again, but it became quite impossible with Mycroft's mouth devouring his.

 

He could only make a helpless sort of gurgle as the younger man's tongue stroked over his lower lip before gliding into his mouth. The Detective Inspector was dimly aware of a crash nearby and he realized hazily that somehow, the tea service had been upset. He also realized not so hazily that he couldn't give a toss and his arms wound around Mycroft's neck, pulling him closer.

 

“ **WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING** **? MYCROFT!”**

 

Mycroft disengaged himself from Greg's lips and looked at his brother. The younger man's eyes were huge and he sat rigid, gripping the sides of the armchair in a white-knuckled hold.

 

“Your suggestion was that we cease _verbally fellating_ each other. Perhaps you're right, my dear brother. There is no substitute, after all, for the real act.”

 

Mycroft dove for him again, and Lestrade felt hands at his trousers, undoing his belt and his zip. When a questing hand breached the opening in his trousers, he gasped into Mycroft's mouth, not sure exactly what the elder Holmes planned on doing. And when Mycroft began kissing a straight line down his neck with a more southerly destination in mind, Greg groaned aloud. John and Sherlock were _right there,_ after all. He couldn't be _serious_ about –

 

“ **JOHN, STOP THEM! DON'T LET THEM DEFILE THE COUCH!”**

 

There was the sound of ripping cloth, and chair legs hastily scraped across the floor.

 

“Um, no. I … no. _No_.”

 

There was the unmistakable sound of someone running across the floor and down the stairs. The front door opened quickly and shut just as swiftly. Almost immediately, a second set of feet made the same circuit, and the slamming of the door nearly knocked the skull from the mantle.

 

When all had settled down again, Mycroft pulled away, staring deeply into Greg's eyes.

 

“Very rude. They didn't even say goodbye.”

 

Greg was nearly in a stupor, having to shake his head several times to get his brain to start working again.

 

“We couldn't have just _told_ them that we've started dating, so all the half-arse comments about us fancying each other weren't necessary?”

 

“Of course we could have told them,” said Mycroft with a small grin. “But that wouldn't have been nearly as fun.”

 

"You decided on this when Sherlock made that crack about your hair, didn't you?"

 

"He's tormented me with those curls for a decade," Mycroft muttered. "It would be an utter delight to see him go spear bald before he is 40."

 

Lestrade half-laughed and half-shuddered at the image of a bald Sherlock Holmes. Without hair, he'd look somewhat like an emaciated version of the Blofield villain from the Bond films.

 

“So we're doing the scavenger hunt together, yeah?”

 

“No.”

 

“ _No_?”

 

“No.” Mycroft lightly ruffled the silvery strands. “You'll work with Sherlock. I, with John. Sherlock will not be able to look at you for quite some time without imagining what he thinks we've gotten up to here on his precious sofa. It will distract him enough for John and myself to see our way clear to the victory post.”

 

Lestrade frowned. “And why should I be all right with letting the two of _you_ win?”

 

“Because, my dear, I plan on imparting some information to the good doctor about my brother that might lead to their own mutual understanding. And they say _we_ nittered around each other!”

 

“Oh … _oh._ But it's fun watching them pretend they don't want to fuck each other senseless. Gives us a nice giggle down at the Yard.”

 

“Well, as much as I like you to enjoy your work,” said Mycroft, “I do believe it's high time my brother replaced that stick up his arse with –”

 

“– Uh, yeah, I'm gonna stop you there and suggest you either get on with what you were doing or let's take this back to mine where we can stretch out a bit more.” Lestrade straightened his clothes and gave Mycroft a searching look. "You really wanted to marry a _trifle_?"

 

"Honestly, Gregory," Mycroft groaned. "It was nearly 40 years ago. And, again, my mother was unrivaled in preparing that dish. It's quite good that I wasn't a bit older ... I might have wanted to do more than just _marry_ it. I believe I read something about an American movie that was quite popular that featured a character with a similar ... fondness for a certain dessert."

 

Greg looked askance at his lover. "You're a filthy bugger, Mycroft Holmes."

 

The auburn-haired man nodded slightly. "Yes. Yes, I do believe I am. And you love it."

 

"Too right." Greg grinned. "I think I have whipping cream and some strawberries at my flat. Care to see what you might have missed out on?"

 

Much, much later, with a sleeping DI in his arms, Mycroft Holmes offered a silent apology to his Mummy. Her trifle had been wonderful, but he had to concede that Gregory's recipe was much, _much_ better.


End file.
